


C'est La Vie

by deltachye



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (kinda), F/M, Implied Sexual Content, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 20:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14120661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [reader x james wesley]You didn’t think James Wesley was the type of man to stoop so low as to fall in love with his whore. And yet, here you were, the only one around, dumping lukewarm wine onto his grave.





	C'est La Vie

_that's life._

* * *

 It was a colder night than most in New York, New York. The rain came down as a heavy, oppressive mist that coated your bare skin with such a slimy chill that you felt like you might never be warm again. The roads were slick and black; neon lights reflected up from dirty puddles and made your smooth legs glow with red and blue. An All-American slut, just as the capitalists like it.

You ruffled in your cheap faux fur coat, looking down at the time on your watch. You still had an hour left to your shift. A miniature sigh clouded in front of you. Business was always bad on these kinds of days. People wanted to stay at home to watch porn and jerk their dick themselves, too lazy to venture outside. All you could do was wait for spring, as everybody does during winter.

To your luck, a car trundled up to you just as you were about to pack it up. It was a fancy thing: armoured, glossy, black, and mysterious. It wasn’t as flashy as a lambo or a GT, but you also knew that an important person had to be inside. But, you didn’t really care—the more expensive the car, the better the tip. That is, the monetary one. The other is often depressing.

“Can I help you?” you asked sultrily, leaning forwards as the mirrored window rolled down. Your bubble gum popped, revealing a man behind it. He was well dressed, more so than most, even in this pretentious district of NYC. Probably Wall Street or something sketchier. You weren’t too choosy. The orange light of streetlamps reflected off of his glasses and obscured his expression.

“I’d hope so,” he replied, jerking his head to the side. You crossed around the car and got in the back, sighing with relief as warm air blew down from the vents. You smiled to him, grateful that you managed to hook a client before freezing to death.

“So, do you want to know my rates before or after?”

“I don’t need to know your rates. I’m looking for your services, but not the kind you think.”

“I can do lots of tricks,” you said, running your finger along the top of your breasts, flicking rainwater away. “Whatever fits your fetish or fancy. I’m pretty… flexible. Ask and you shall receive.”

He made a face, his eyes crinkling with disgust that didn’t pair quite right with the smile on his lips. He withdrew a manila envelope from within his clean-cut suit, handing it to you. You took it wordlessly, immediately checking the contents. Unable to help yourself, you blew another bubble, whistling lowly.

“My employer is interested in some information you may be able to provide,” he continued charismatically, the fake smile practically emanating through each syllable. “You have a lot of clients. Does the name Mr. Barrett Keaton ring a bell?”

You tucked the money inside of your jacket, not generous enough to hand it back to him. “Oh, sorry. Doctor-patient confidentiality, Mister. I can’t go giving up my clients left and right, or else I’ll have no clients left.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I make people feel better, don’t I? And I charge the hell out of them for it. I think me and the docs have a lot in common.” You patted your jacket and put your hand back on the door handle. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t kiss and tell.”

You saw him wave his hand out the corner of your eye and froze. The door locked underneath your hand with a quiet _click_ and you grit your teeth. You tried pulling on it once, but the car was still whizzing along, and you knew that you’d get hell of a lot more than you bargained for if you tried to force your way out of this. You turned back to face him, crossing your legs as he smiled that same unpleasant smile. The air grew sour with tension.

“Would you for twice that amount?” he asked, nodding at your jacket, where you’d already pocketed the money. You stared back, eyebrows raised to God Himself.

“Fuck, man. Do you bring that around on you all the time? I’d like to be nearby if you ever get mugged.”

“Do we have a _deal_?” he asked bluntly, ignoring you completely as his eyes flicked away with annoyance. You sighed, weighing your options in your head. It didn’t take long. You didn’t doubt that this man and his mysterious employer would be willing to pay you whatever you wanted; and you also didn’t doubt that you’d be scanning your ticket down to Hell if you refused. You guessed you were pretty lucky that Senator Keaton had whispered into the vertex between your pretty little legs.

“As long as we talk at my place,” you agreed, after a long pause. “I don’t like your car. There’s too much leather. I get stuck to it.” Your place also had your gun, alongside the one sitting pretty in your purse. Things weren’t exactly safe in your line of work.

He closed his eyes with irritation but re-opened them, nodding stiffly with begrudging defeat. After all, you held the upper hand. “The address?”

You told him, and he knocked on the dark grey partition. The car sped off, and you uncrossed your legs, arching an eyebrow at him while leaning in closer.

“Are you going to tell me _why_ you want to know so much about Senator Keaton? D’you want me to tell you his dick size? Because he’s actually a—”

“Nothing of the sort,” the man interjected pleasantly, an obvious master of controlling his tone to sound perfectly reasonable even when he was radiating revulsion. He shifted in his seat, fidgeting with his expensive looking blackberry. The blue light made his face look gaunt. “It’s more… _political_ of nature. I assure you, the fine details of the Senator’s genitals are yours to keep.”

“What do you want me to call you?” you asked, sitting back. “Right now, I’m feeling a ‘Clark’ vibe. Because of the whole four-eyes thing.”

He made another face of disgust but reached into his breast pocket. He handed you a business card without looking at you, the white paper sandwiched between his manicured fingers. You plucked it up, your long nails scraping quietly against the expensive papyrus. Your thumb passed over the gold divots of his name.

“James Wesley, huh?” You tucked that away with the envelope, extending a hand after it was secure. He looked down at it judgementally, his nose upturned indignantly at the thought. You smiled widely.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered, your voice soft in the quiet car. You leant forwards, patting his arm, feeling it tense under your touch. Your fingers encircled him carefully. “I’m clean… if you’re thinking of taking me up on my main services. It’d be a waste of money not to, Mr. Wesley.”

He sighed to himself, discomfort etched across his features as he reached up to take his glasses off. He polished them on his shirt wordlessly. But, he was a smart businessman, and he didn’t like to put things to waste.

“I prefer Wesley.”

Your teeth were strikingly white against your wet, cherry red lips.

“I like the shorter names anyways. They’re easier to scream.”

 

\---

“Fuck… _Wesley_!”

His body convulsed against yours, trap muscles tense underneath your piercing grip. You’d had plenty of clients before, but something about his earnestness made you feel a spark that you didn’t get with the others. He was a genuinely _bad_ guy, and that got you to come hard, clutching onto him for dear life on the ride out. You’d never believed in God, but maybe after meeting him, you believed in demons.

He stayed like that for a minute, breathing hard to catch his breath. Each time his stomach brushed with yours, you felt a ghostly tingle. He always smelled good, even after he was drenched with sweat, the musk of his body and sex mingling with expensive pine. Swiftly, he pulled out of you neatly, discarding what needed to be thrown away—including the lustful stare that’d lit up the back of his eyes. You couldn’t help but grin smugly up at his flat expression as he returned to his businessman state, pushing his dark hair back into place after you’d messed it up by winding your fingers through it. Wesley was good at pretending things hadn’t happened. Neat and tidy clean-up makes for false memories. Had it ever happened at all if you couldn’t remember it?

“You’re one of the quietest clients I get,” you purred, dragging your fingers along your bedsheet as he turned away. “Is there a reason for that?”

“Maybe you’re just loud,” he retorted, picking his white Oxford up off of your floor. You huffed indignantly.

“Way to treat your employee like that, Wes.”

“Wes?” he repeated indignantly, sounding offended that you’d have the audacity to give him such a childish nickname. You didn’t know much about him, other than the fact that he could probably kill you if he wanted to—which was why it was more fun to tease him like this. You batted his hands away as he started to button his shirt, taking over for him as you smiled. He stared back, easily defeated.

“I mean, you pay me, don’t you?”

“It’s an arrangement,” he corrected. “As you suggested, I’m not one to waste.”

“Oh, a recycler? Good work, saving the world and all that.” You stretched past him and picked his tie up with your foot, transferring the silk to your hands. It had the colour of diluted Nyquil, reminiscent of the crisp blue-green Mediterranean Sea. You laid it across his shoulders, your fingers splayed across his chest as you knotted it slowly. You could strangle him like this, and he knew it too. He was tense as you played with the tie, so soft that it was almost as fluid as water. You didn’t kill him. You merely tugged the wide end low, near his undone belt buckle. Your hands lingered as you leant in close, your lips grazing his ear.

“Mike Garraty’s been conspiring to shoot Arthur Keller’s wife next Monday, before the social. He asked me if I knew any guys for the job. He’s also vehemently against gays and has a swastika tattooed on his balls… just in case you needed to soil up his cute image.”

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice low and huskier than usual as he whispered back to you with a small nod. He sighed after you finished knotting his tie, adjusting it himself. “My employer will be glad to hear it.”

“It’s always about your boss,” you retorted petulantly, sitting back onto your feet. “You’re practically married to him. Makes me think… have you ever had a real lover, Wesley?”

“Exchanging small talk was not a part of the deal,” he replied emotionlessly, his back facing you once more as he continued to dress himself. You let out a small whine.

“C’mon now, aren’t you ever curious about me? You can ask _me_ anything.”

“How much do I pay for you to be quiet?” he snapped peevishly, turning back to glare at you. He never broke his composure like this. You laughed as he twisted away, shaking his head. He was about to get up before you stuck both of your hands through his dark brown hair, your nails separating the crisp locks that he’d gelled together that morning.

“You don’t touch a girl like that… without never having been in love before.”

“If you knew the answer, why did you bother asking?” He stood up, your hands slipping out of his hair. He looked down through his lashes at you as he shrugged his expensive coat jacket back on.

“Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it.” You cocked your head expectantly. “Well?”

“I’ll see you next time.” He picked his phone up out of his jacket pocket, giving you a last pointed glance as you snickered. “What?” he demanded, tiredly. “What is it?”

“I’m just thinking… Wes, you’re so damn anal. Maybe we ought to do that next time! I can loosen you up real good, I promise.”

He left shortly after that, leaving you giggling in your bed. You thought you could hear him sigh through his nose through the door. You flopped back and pulled the sheets up over yourself, smiling. You weren’t supposed to pick favourites, but you liked him quite a bit more than the rest, and it wasn’t because of his money.

 

\---

“How much will it be tonight?”

“Worth it, hon.”

You hung from his arm, smiling coquettishly up at him. Colton Sinclair liked his girls submissive, so that was what you played. Other people liked you to step on them, and you had a whole bag of costumes if they were looking for something a little less vanilla. Before you could walk across the street to his car, a voice floated up from behind you. You froze.

“Excuse me, Sir, but I’m afraid you will need to find business with another fine lady tonight.”

You were jerked away from your client roughly, shoved ass-first into a waiting car before you could even let out a cry of surprise. The door slammed shut and you whipped around to see who had grabbed you. Your eyes widened. His smug expression was not the least bit subdued in the dim light.

“ _Wesley_? What the fuck’re you doing?! That’s a regular!”

The car was already speeding away at this point and you craned back to stare out the back window, groaning with defeat as a stunned Colton watched you go. You turned to glare at Wesley.

“Sinclair’ll never deal with me again, you fucking—”

“Forget about him,” Wesley sighed, facing forwards and clicking through his phone, bored. The ghostly light made the shadows of his face more prominent in the dark. “We’ll pay even more than he could’ve in all of his sad life.”

You ground your teeth together, crossing your arms. “Even though that sounds nice and dandy, I have a rep to uphold. I can’t be a whore if nobody wants to fuck me!”

“I’m sure you’re doing just fine on that part,” he muttered distractedly, tapping away at a text. You scowled in return.

“Are you going to tell me why you just kidnapped me? If it’s a booty call, you should’ve just—I dunno— _called_.”

“My employer wants to offer you a job.” He finally shut his phone off, its fluorescent absence leaving the car’s cabin dark as orange streetlamps zipped past from above. His light irises seemed to shine in the darkness, gleaming with something you didn’t understand. “It looks like he’s grown more interested in your talents.”

“What kind of job?” you asked warily. “I like you plenty, Wes, but screwing your boss at the same time is going to make it weird—”

“Not that,” he interrupted. “A cushy job at a generic office. He wants you to keep an eye on some people. Listen into conversations.”

“Do you know how I got all those cool secrets for you?” you asked hotly, ignoring his proposal entirely. “I sure as hell didn’t fuck it out of them. It’s because I had _friends_. They were shitty and probably have more STIs than I have fingers, but they talked to me. You putting me into some sweet ass white collar thing isn’t going to work for your op in the long run. Snitches get stitches.”

“We’ll deal with that situation when it arises,” he replied simply. His eyes raked over you, lingering disgustedly on your blown-up tits and too-small skirt. “I suggest that you dress appropriately. Work starts at seven tomorrow.”

“Can I ask where we’re going if work’s _tomorrow_?” you demanded through ground teeth. The humourless smile returned to his face, but his eyes were alight with an emotion not quite unfamiliar to you. You’d seen it before from him.

“You’re a smart girl. Figure it out.”

For the first time since encountering James Wesley, you shivered uneasily.

 

\---

“Where are we?”

“Your new apartment.”

You couldn’t help but turn to him, slack-jawed, your mouth a big stupid O as you stared into his eyes. He’d brought you up to the fourtieth floor of a sleek, beautiful building, and practically tossed you inside an apartment that looked as if it had been ripped right out of an IKEA catalogue.

“I… have so many questions,” you muttered to yourself, turning your eyes up to the crystal chandelier that was casting miniature rainbows across the gigantic living space. You were already shaking your head before you could begin. “No. Thank you, Wes, but I can’t—”

“Why not?” he asked, cocking his head. He didn’t seem offended at your rejection, but more curious. His arms crossed, the fabric of his suit tightening over his broad shoulders. You found yourself floundering for a reason other than ‘I’ve never ever had anything this nice before’.

“You told me that I could ask you anything,” he continued, taking advantage of your silence. His hands dropped into his pockets and he stepped towards you, standing tall at your side as he looked out of the floor-to-ceiling window. New York glittered vastly outside, as if you were staring into a vault of gold. His reflection looked like a spectre beside you as the two of you floated over the skyline. “So let me ask you this. What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“What?” It was an off-putting question, and you couldn’t help but feel a prickle of suspicion as to why James Wesley was asking you such a normal question. It was personal small talk, something he despised. He was always the go-getter, putting efficiency first. He glanced over at you expectantly and you stood up straighter, suddenly feeling obligated to answer.

“I guess… I wanted to be a teacher. I had a really nice one in elementary, so…” You trailed off, assuming that he wouldn’t be interested in hearing about the classic sob story of you losing track of your life and growing up to become a hooker just to make ends meet instead. You looked up at his reflection in the window, utterly shocked to see a faint vestige of a smile on his lips.

“Interesting. See, I never thought that I’d be an aide to New York’s largest crime syndicate. I always thought I’d grow up to be a vet.”

“You—a _vet_?” you spluttered, unable to even imagine this man cuddling kittens.

He shrugged, indifferent to your shock. “I liked animals. My point is…” He sighed. “You aren’t always meant to do what you think you are.”

“So… what’re you saying?”

“You’re a waste of talent.” It was a flat delivery, like everything else he did—carefully constructed and meticulous. He looked down at you, hands still slack in his pockets, not bothering to wait for your reaction. “Work for us. For me.”

“Something tells me I don’t have a real choice.”

His smile was chilling. “You don’t.”

“I don’t understand you,” you breathed incredulously. “You’d do this for me?”

“It’s already done.” He moved to turn, but you quickly reached out to grasp his arm. He stopped and looked down at you, unable to catch a glimpse of your face before you wrapped yourself into his body for a hug. He froze underneath your touch, and you let go soon after, but not before smiling into his chest.

“Thank you.”

He did not say anything further, but you didn’t think he had to.

 

\---

“Hey, Wes!”

He made a dry grimace that was a cross of begrudging acceptance and flat annoyance. He had never exactly told you to stop calling him ‘Wes’, and you’d already gotten attached to the little nickname. You practically bounded up to him and threw yourself around an arm. It was lunch break, and he’d called for you to meet him outside. It was a nice day with warm, muted sun and a clear blue sky. He began to walk you down and your heels clacked in time with his loafers.

“You’re in a good mood,” he commented with an air of suspicion. Your smile grew a bit broader.

“I am. D’you want to know why?”

“I feel obliged to say ‘yes’.”

“Jeez, don’t be rude. It’s for you after all. Anyways, I finally got those secretaries to spill the beans about where the Italians have been shipping their merch. See? Now say I haven’t made your day, too.”

He slowed to a stop at the corner, the both of you joining the crowd of impatiently waiting pedestrians. You expected him to give you some other crack along the lines of ‘why should I be impressed with you just doing your job?’, but he was silent, looking deep in thought. Crows’ feet accented his sharp blue eyes.

“Wes?” you prodded hesitantly. He looked startled and cleared his throat, straightening his slate grey tie.

“Yeah, right. Sure. Text me the address later.” He still sounded distracted and was taking care not to meet your gaze. Apprehensively, you unwound yourself from his broad arm.

“Is everything okay? I haven’t done anything wrong, right?”

“Why would you think you’ve done something wrong?” he asked, seeming surprised. You shifted uneasily.

“Well, it’s just that you’re really intense about work and your boss, so I figured you might be mad at me if I’m not good enough…”

“You don’t have to worry about Mr. Fisk.” He cut you off shortly, with a firmness you didn’t expect. He sighed, and his voice softened as the walking man flashed and you both began to move again. “Really, don’t worry about it at all. Just… live your life.”

“What do you mean?” you insisted, not quite understanding his cryptic responses. “Didn’t you put me into that company as a mole for you and this Fisk guy?”

“I…” He stopped suddenly, in the middle of the crosswalk, forcing disgruntled passersby to part around him like a felled log in a white-water river.

“That wasn’t the only reason I put you there.”

“Then… what else?” You laughed nervously, hoping to ease whatever expression was darkening his face. “You _cared_ about me?”

It was a passing joke, but to your surprise, he merely blinked.

“Sure. Let’s put it that way.” He reached forwards and you felt him brush stray hair off of your forehead, tucking it behind your ear carefully. The memories of him wrenching your locks out of your scalp as he fucked you raw didn’t match up and you shivered at the lingering touch, unable to help flinching away.

“What are you saying?” you asked quietly with poorly hidden anger. “You took me off the street as a fucking _charity case_?”

“Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to see you as a whore on the street anymore,” he barked, the sudden rush of rage making you step back. “Maybe it’s because I thought that you’d be better off in a goddamn office cubicle than blowing some—some other _man_ in a back alley! Maybe it’s because I thought you’d still like to go and teach someday! But if you’d like to prove me wrong, then by all means; go on ahead.”

There didn’t seem to be a world around you anymore. All you could see were his eyes, boring into you with cold, fiery intensity. You chewed on your lip and then lowered your head.

“…I’m sorry.”

Despite the hum of crowd, you heard his scoff.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

By the time you could muster the courage to look up, he was gone.

 

\---

“Wes, I know you’re in there.”

The front desk had buzzed you in after you’d dropped the F-bomb of Mr. Fisk’s name. Unfortunately, your luck didn’t extend to a spare key, and you were stuck howling outside of Wesley’s door like a pathetic ex-boyfriend. Was that all you were to him? The thought angered you, but not as much as it saddened you, and you pounded on the door again.

“I’m not leaving ‘till you at least hear me out, Wes!”

You were at least determined in that if nothing else. Sleeping in weird places wasn’t anything new to you. You settled on the floor with nothing to comfort you but a discouraged sigh. The sharp whip-crack of his firm voice still seemed to echo in your skull, rattling around: _it was a pleasure doing business with you._

“What an asshole,” you breathed, but it was about as serious as a cancer awareness ad on a fresh box of cigarettes.

People didn’t stick around in your life. Your parents were little more than sperm-and-egg donors, and you’d only made it this far by clawing through foster care systems and good luck. Once, you had wanted to be a teacher because a particularly sunny one had stuck around. But she left, just as everybody did. That time had long since floated away like coke dust off the edge of a table. It was useless to hold onto anybody, because everybody was either a boss or a client, and everybody was meant to hurt you. It didn’t matter if they did that up front or later, when it would really hit you hard—everybody was meant to hurt you.

Only, Wesley had always been gentle. Maybe not during the act, but he was soft in his touch, and softer with his words. He was serious, maybe sarcastic, maybe scary, and he had a lot hidden behind that half-crescent moon of a smile. But he made you feel at ease. Maybe you’d fallen for a lie like a horny Christian boy falls for fake lesbian porn, but it wasn’t like you could deny it anymore. Who else sits outside of somebody’s door when they aren’t drunk?

Stupid people who’ve fallen into love.

It was late when he finally emerged from the elevator, the flush of gold light waking you up with a start. You couldn’t remember how long you’d been sitting here, but your body was stiff. He looked down upon you disapprovingly but said nothing, giving only a grimace to acknowledge you at all. You staggered to your numb feet, and he opened the door once you moved aside.

“Wes, I—”

You’d trailed in behind like a sheepish dog and was wrenched forwards, taken off guard when he suddenly turned back around to grab you by the shoulders. The door handle dug painfully into your hip. His kiss was ferocious, avaricious—and his hands slipped up into your hair, nails digging into your scalp. Yet he cradled you with that softness you’d dreamt about feverishly. With his mouth slanted over yours so aggressively, could it even be called a kiss? But your body surrendered itself, relaxing into him as one relaxes into death’s embrace.

Your nerves fired like shotgun blasts: too much, too good that it hurt. Wesley always played with you, giving you too much, or not enough. He was a sadist, even if he couldn’t admit that to himself—you knew he liked the way you squirmed under him, the way you begged for it to end when it didn’t, the way you begged for more when it was over. Your mouth made the word _no_ , but your big fucking monkey brain screamed _yes_. Wesley took and didn’t give, but you loved it. You loved him.

It’d been a while since he’d fucked you like this. Usually he turned you over, but this time you saw his face. There was vulnerability mingling with the scent of bleached linen. Unmasked without his glasses, there was sincerity in each moan, each gasp of the breath. The texture of the moment coaxed you, enraptured you—you clung to him when you came, holding him close in the fear that letting go would mean goodbye.

When you brokenly whispered, ‘I love you’, he didn’t reply right away. You saw his pupils twitch in the sea, and thought it was no wonder that the days always seemed so grey, for all the blue was stored in his eyes.

He did not say anything further, but you didn’t think he had to.

 

\---

Burial sites were hard to come by in New York; all busy metropolitans had the issue of limited space, and allotting it to dead people who couldn’t even enjoy it didn’t seem to be the best solution. Not even God seemed to be able to say ‘no’ to Wilson Fisk, however, and James Wesley rested peacefully within the Earth.

There was nobody else around, but you hadn’t expected there to be. Wesley had never been a New Yorker, but he seemed to have been born here anyways, for his past was forever lost to the whim of the rats. He could’ve walked out of any building now, renewed with the same unpleasant smile he’d first greeted you with. As in life, he was a ghost—and is anything really real if nobody remembers it?

Fisk hadn’t held a service, understanding that putting Wesley’s name in the air would have been a great big ‘fuck you’ to his ever-loyal right-hand man. So nobody was around, save for you.

You’d learnt of his death as Fisk knocked on your apartment door. The fat white man had cried in an ugly fashion, and you’d only watched with muted disgust. You did nothing to reach forwards and comfort him, but you did pour him a drink. It was the least you could do.

You knelt carefully, the soil wet from yesterday’s rainfall. The sky was milky white, as if the blue had been stolen—rather, buried, like forever lost treasure. He had a superfluous looking gravestone, and you carefully brushed water droplets out the rivets of his engraved name. It reminded you of the business card he’d first given you—stately and precise. Everything seemed to remind you of him, as plain as he was. As plain as he was, he was like a shadow; always there.

“Today a student told me he wanted to marry me. I think you’d find that funny.” You spoke softly as you pulled your sleeve over your hand, continuing to wipe down his gravestone like you might run your hand along his back. “Especially since you know my past resume.”

He said nothing, like he might if he was alive, brooding always. You could almost see him adjust his glasses with a haughty smirk and smiled back.

“Anyways… I’m really sorry you’re gone, Wes. I liked you.”

The wind whistled in response and the weight in your arm finally grew too heavy for you to stand. You set the wine bottle down in the earth, prying the cork open crudely. You turned it upside down, emptying the rich, violet-toned alcohol down into the grass, and took a sip of your own. You gave cheers to the sky.

“C’est la vie.”

It was your final goodbye. You did not look back; but you didn’t need to turn around to know your shadow was following you.

**Author's Note:**

> read this elsewhere: https://goo.gl/YowJyH


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